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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26508595">Perfectly Still</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scythela/pseuds/Scythela'>Scythela</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Beatles (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Death, Denial, Funerals, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Lots of song references, M/M, Pain, Rain, References to Depression, Sad Ending, Suicide</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 02:46:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,784</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26508595</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scythela/pseuds/Scythela</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The casket was pristine white with red roses pinned on the cap panel. It’s when he grips the sides of the podium did he notice that he was deathly pale. Still, his skin could not compare to the ivory white of Paul’s. His thick lashes rest low on his cheeks, eyelids obscuring glassy hazel orbs that long lost their alluring shine. Though his cheeks and hands were tinted with rouge to give the impression that he was only sleeping, John knew damn well he wasn’t. It was the calmness of death.</i>
</p><p>-----</p><p>John struggles with the aftermath of Paul's death and doesn't know how to cope. He always struggled with being honest to others, even to himself. He has a heart to heart with a man who lay there peacefully, perfectly still.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>John Lennon &amp; Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Paul McCartney</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>been rotting in the drafts since may, figured that i should post it</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>SCOTLAND, UK</strong>
</p><p>It was raining. The skies were grey and it seemed like it wasn’t letting up anything soon. The scent of petrichor emanated from the hill they stood on. It was fitting for a funeral as it matched the sombre atmosphere, even amplified it.  A tarpaulin shielded their heads from the torrent. Everyone wore black in respect. Others were violently sobbing on their seats, but John remained silent.</p><p>George and Ringo sat next to him, also quiet but melancholic. They haven’t said a word to each other prior to the service, only sharing an acknowledging nod or glance, and that seemed to be enough for them. The letters felt heavy in their pockets and the writing on them was almost illegible and blotted, either from tears or from the shaking of their hands. They were supposed to say a little speech in regards to an old friend.</p><p>John looked at a heavily pregnant Linda and saw the horrible state she was in. He saw heavy bags beneath puffy red eyes. Her black dress stretched at the large baby bump that was nearing its due. She seemed to have forgone makeup, thinking it was pointless when she was going to ruin it anyway.</p><p>Next to her was their eight-year-old daughter Heather who was already in tears, but trying to embrace her mother with shaking arms. Linda held tightly to the baby Stella who seemed to be sleeping. Heather hiccupped and bawled, her little fists clutching her mummy’s dress as she wept into the fabric.</p><p>“M-mummy, when is daddy gonna wake up?”</p><p>John gritted his teeth and sucked in a breath, digging his nails into his skin as he held himself. It was time for the speeches and from what Linda told them, Ringo was to go first, followed by George, John, and lastly Linda. After the priest did his job, it was time for Ringo to say what he needed to say. He stood up from his seat and stood behind the white podium.</p><p> “When I first met Paul, I thought he was…”</p><p>The words seemed to have slipped John’s mind. He couldn’t hear anything but the fucking rain and his own thoughts. He laid his head low in his palms while his elbows rested on his lap. George looked at him, concerned, but refrained from asking what was wrong because he knew. This— this was all wrong. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This felt like a nightmare that everyone desperately wanted to wake up from. Ringo was taking deep breaths mid-speech and had to apologize for the times his voice broke before he finished and went back to his seat.</p><p>George was up next.</p><p>“When I think of a friend, I think of Paul. I remember when he—“</p><p>John can’t hear the words again. He was too absorbed in his mind.</p><p>John had to firmly press his palm against his lips. His gut felt heavy and he was nauseous. His tongue tasted bile, but he managed to keep it down. His legs felt too heavy to stand and walk away from this mistake. It was some sort of sick sense of guilt and he felt like he should stay and bear witness to the ramifications of his actions. Of <em>their</em> actions. Memories from then weighed heavy in his mind as he picked out every little part where Paul was desperate for a semblance of the brotherhood he longed to cultivate and keep. Where did it all go wrong? The battle for leadership? The growing competition and ego? Brian’s death? The back-to-back suing? The public defamation?</p><p>It felt horrible to think of the past.</p><p>“John.” George gently squeezed his shoulder. “Come on, mate. It’s your turn.”</p><p>What was that on his face? John wiped his cheeks and realized what was on them. Tears. Of course. He was fucking crying. His wet eyes darted around, noting that some were waiting for him to get on the podium. A shaky exhale escaped his lips as he made his way to the front.</p><p>Each step he took felt like he was walking on broken glass. The closer he got, the more his chest constricted with a pain resembling a bullet wound, maybe four. It heaved at every heavy breath he took to steady himself. Shaky fingers slid through his pocket to pull out a note with barely legible words written on it. It was his speech or whatever the hell he needed to get off his chest. He stared at it, trying to make sense of whatever dribble he wrote in a state of shock before slipping it back in.</p><p>The casket was pristinely white with red roses pinned on the cap panel. It’s when he grips the sides of the podium did he notice that he was deathly pale. Still, his skin could not compare to the ivory white of Paul’s. His thick lashes rest low on his cheeks, eyelids obscuring glassy hazel eyes that long lost their alluring shine. Though his cheeks and hands were tinted with rouge to give the impression that he was only sleeping, John knew damn well he wasn’t. It was the calmness of death. The silence after the sound. John wanted to look away— he couldn’t stare at this any longer. This was all some kind of sick joke, a prank of some sort. Paul wasn’t fucking dead, he couldn’t be fucking dead! It just wasn’t possible! Only a fucking idiot would think he passed! He tasted something rotten in his mouth and covered it with his hand, a look of terror and panic frazzling his features. “Fuck—” His legs carried him far away, knocking over a basket of flowers or two, but he didn’t give a damn.</p><p>Not when his bloody mate was dead.</p><p>“John!” The people exclaimed.</p><p>There were people in the service calling after him but his legs only led him farther. All he did was run away like the fucking coward he was. It was all his fault. He was why Paul was going to get fucking buried six feet below the ground with tombstone marking his final resting place. He made him feel like absolute horse shit, made him feel useless, and treated him like the most disposable crap ever since their major fall out. Paul didn’t deserve to rot, he deserved to thrive with the living and continue honing and sharing his craft.</p><p>John couldn’t get the words out of his mouth without feeling sick in the stomach— it just wasn’t possible. He was afraid of telling the people of his history with Paul.</p><p>
  <em>Coward! All you do is hurt and regret it when it’s too late! When are you going to learn your fucking lesson? Not everyone stays when you push them away. Push them too close to the edge, however, then they fucking fall. You can’t hear their screams because you’re too busy amplifying your own. Isn’t this what you wanted? Didn’t you want him out of your life? You said so yourself. It’s all because of you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s all your fault.</em>
</p><p>Eventually, his tired legs stopped behind a tree, crumbling down with a heaving chest desperate for air due to all the running and crying. The clothes on his back pressed against the bark as he sought refuge underneath its thick branches and leaves. He tucked his legs to his chest and hung his head low, the tears flowing freely and mixing with raindrops. John could only hear the torrent of rain over his weeping.</p><p>It wasn’t fucking fair. It just wasn’t. However, John wasn’t dumb. He’d dealt with loss and he knew that crying on the dirt wasn’t going to bring him back. It didn’t bring his mum back, not his uncle, and <em>definitely</em> not Paul. Paul was the one who was supposed to hold John in his arms with a sad look in his face. The one telling him to let it all out and that he needs to be strong. After all, he dealt with the same loss that crippled John with grief.</p><p>Because of him, Paul wasn’t here. John knows because he left him.</p><p>A small voice in his head reasoned that Paul chose Jane and Linda over him. Fuck, maybe even his other flings, if those lasted long enough. Abandoned like an unwanted toy in a little donation box. It hurt like a bitch, but he was guilty of the same. He left Paul when he needed him. John had no choice but to deal with it and move on. Although, <em>was</em> he able to move on? He wanted to say yes but the answer was no, a big fucking no, and he knows that. He hated how he knew that.</p><p>He didn’t get any opportunity to patch things up.</p><p>Maybe he did but was too stubborn to see it.</p><p>The past felt colourless and the future was bleak. The present was suffocating him as he struggled to comprehend anything. It didn’t take long until he shivered in the cold, the wetness seeping through his clothes and chilling him to the bones. As time passed, John felt his fingers grow numb and pale. He shook like a leaf, erratically breathing to calm down and stop crying. As he tried to collect himself, the strange realization hit him that he could still hear the rain but he couldn’t feel it, hearing pitter-patters against sturdy nylon instead. John’s teary eyes looked up to see Linda, holding an umbrella above him.</p><p>“What the fuck are you doing here?” He said, nasal voice incredibly hoarse.</p><p>“You need to let it out, John.” Her voice was soft, tender, and sombre.</p><p>John turned away, unable to look her in the eyes. “Isn’t he down yet?”</p><p>“No.” And it surprised him. Linda gestured to stand up and so he did, with shaky legs. She led them back to the burial site, awkwardly walking next to John to shield them from the downpour. John slowly noticed the white casket still six feet above, a bright reminder of all his mistakes and shortcomings. They stopped beneath the tarp, trying to dry themselves off to no avail. “I don’t want you to live your life without saying what you need to,” said Linda, reaching for a damp handkerchief and wiping the streaks of tears on her cheeks.</p><p>“Why are you doing this?” John sauntered up to her, a shaking hand clutching his chest. “Linda, did you forget that I’m the one who caused him pain!? I’m the reason why your husband wallowed in depression and suffered for years, I should be the last person you want to see near him!”</p><p>“I know you should be,” said Linda, unfazed by his sudden outburst. “But I can’t deny that you love him... maybe even as much as I do. You love him and he loved you. If that isn’t reason enough, I don’t know what is. I just want you to say what you need to say. It’s just us here. ”She placed a hand on John’s shoulder, squeezing it to provide reassurance. “Just… take your time when you’re talking to him, okay? I don’t want you to leave things unsaid.”</p><p>“Linda.” John’s voice wavers.</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“…Thanks.”</p><p>Linda smiles lovingly, the same sad smile she gave to Heather at the beginning of the funeral. She presses her lips against John’s forehead before turning back to the farthest corner of the tarpaulin, leaving John to do what he needed to do. He turned to the white casket and stared at it. It sat there, a reminder of all his shortcomings as a friend and maybe even as a lover. He gulped and began to walk closer.</p><p>He forced himself to look into the casket, peering through the glass to see Paul still unmoving and lifeless.</p><p>“Paul, I know you’re dead and you can’t hear me at all, but let me just… say what needs to be said, yeah?” John bit his lip. Of course, he wasn’t getting a response. “I don’t know where to start. I’m… I’m just lost without you.</p><p>“Since that day at the fete, that day when I first met you, I knew that fate had big things in store for us. Not just with the band thing, but between us too. It was like a whirlwind swept us off our feet and dragged us off to place after place around the whole bloody world. Paris… Those two weeks were a lot of firsts for us, and I’m glad I got to spend my 21<sup>st</sup> with you. Wouldn’t have dreamt of spending it with anyone else. Even so, Hamburg, Paris, India, New York… The whole fucking world, even. None of them would matter if you weren’t there with me.”</p><p>John bit his lip, shaking his head at the memories.</p><p>“It was the silly things that made me love you. The way you’d steal my glasses and never give them back. The way you’d catch on with my jokes and play along. The way you’d egg me on when I’m trying to do something stupid. The way you’d run with me to fuck-all nowhere just because I told you to come with. The way you’d defend me whenever someone tried to hurt me, the way you’d…</p><p>“The way you told me that you loved me and meant it.” John wracked a sob. “The way you’d hold me in your arms and make me feel like I was the most important person in the world. The way you’d make me feel safe and happy when I was so scared and alone. The way you’d keep reminding me that I had so much to live for when I felt like I was better off dead. Everything about you made me love you.</p><p>“Even though it’s too late to say, I’m fucking thankful that we met. You changed my life for the better and I’m… I’m so sorry I hurt you. I was too blind to see that you were suffering. I fucking failed you in every way possible and I wasn’t there when you needed someone. I’m such a dick, aren’t I?” He laughed bitterly. “Aren’t I?”</p><p>He wanted an answer. He wanted Paul to wake up and agree with him, call him names or whatever as long as he’d get to hear his voice again. Please. One more time. He waited and he waited, the gentle stillness stretching on to eternity like time trapped in a photograph.</p><p>John leaned down and closed his eyes, kissing the glass where Paul’s lips rested below. In a way, the glass symbolized everything that separated them and John cannot do anything but watch Paul from a distance, forever unreachable and out of his grasp. He cannot hold nor kiss him for it was he who would bear the fruits of spite and grief, subject to a life without his closest confidante. Like Orpheus, he was robbed of a lover. But unlike him, he would get no chance to take him back.</p><p>One last look was all it took for him to weep once more, tears of pain turning into rivulets of sorrow.</p><p>“I love you, Paul. I’m sorry.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Time skip. It has been several years since Paul's death and John isn't doing any better.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>NEW YORK, US</strong>
</p><p>It was the middle of the day, sunlight seeping through the thick cloudy sky and pouring into the apartment. The heater was on, providing warmth to combat the bitingly cold city winters.</p><p>Sean slept peacefully in his crib, unbothered by the bustling noise of New York City. Yoko went out to attend another art gallery opening, possibly to display her avant-garde work and lounge within the artistic masses to thrive with like-minded eccentric individuals. John had long abandoned that life, favouring the tranquil life of a house husband content with watching over his son. John sat in the living room, a book in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. The place was silent, the radios and television turned off for the silence John craved. Besides, he didn’t want to wake up his son. From what he recently learned, the little tyke tended to wake up when people talk.</p><p>A knock on his door startled him, causing John to set his cup down. He sighed and peeps through the peeping in the whole to see a blond woman… Linda? What was she doing here? He unlocked the deadbolts and turned the knob, finally opening the door.</p><p>“Hello, John,” She greeted, voice taking on a bit of an English accent. Guess it stuck to her. “How’ve you been? Doing well, I hope.”</p><p>John smiled. “Nice to see you, Linda.” He went in for a friendly hug, patting her back as she hugged back. “I’m doing fine. Come in, come in.”</p><p>Linda stepped inside the home and left her shoes by the entrance, something she knew John would be very pleased with during her previous visits to his flat. Nothing changed in the Dakota aside from a few baby toys strewn about.</p><p>“I see that we share the same role,” said Linda as she observed her surroundings.</p><p>“Stuck cooking and taking care of the kids.” John went to the kitchen and made her a cup of tea. “Never thought I’d be here at all. Some days, I wake up expecting to be called ‘mum’ by my son.” He handed her the drink and sat down next to her by the sofa.</p><p>“Do you like it?” She asked, blowing into her cup to cool it down.</p><p>“Well, I love taking care of Sean. I’m trying to make up for my shortcomings as a father.” He twiddled his thumbs nervously. He shook his head, sighing. “Anyway, what brings you here in NY?”</p><p>“I’m here to promote my book about Paul… It was finally time to let the people know the truth about how he felt. Kill the rumours. Tell the people that he wasn’t just a cold and uncaring person to you guys.”</p><p>“I’m guilty of spreading those rumours.”</p><p>“I know you were,” Linda said curtly. “Which is exactly why I felt compelled to write about him. I want people to know the true Paul and not just respect him because he passed away. I don’t want people to paint him as this prodigy who carried the band or a control freak that didn’t get what he wanted. I want to paint him as he was, a kind person and a loving man who wanted to make up for everything he did wrong but felt like he couldn’t.”</p><p>John had nothing to say to that and merely silently drank his tea, mind buzzing in an effort to get an answer. The silence stretched longer and he decided not to answer at all. In his silence, Linda’s eyes wandered around the room and were drawn to the piano painted a beautiful white with a picture frame sat atop it. Below its legs, however, were empty bottles of whiskey that were either fully empty or barely containing anything.</p><p>“I see that the whiskey bottles are almost empty.” She stood up from her seat and made her way to the piano, pressing a few keys from a song familiar to John.</p><p>John scoffed. “And your wine bottles aren’t?”</p><p>“No,” She sighed, “I suppose not.”</p><p>“Let’s face it, we can’t get him out of our heads ever since.”</p><p>“I think about him every day.”</p><p>“I try not to, but he somehow keeps appearing in every nook and cranny I see.”</p><p>It was as if he was followed everywhere by Paul’s spirit. Whether he was being a guardian angel or a vengeful ghost, John really couldn’t tell. He knew that ghosts didn’t exist, but there’s still this strong inexplicable feeling he got whenever he heard his voice on the radio. It’s the same feeling that makes him ache and suffer countless sleepless nights, just lying there on the bed to wallow in guilt and misery.</p><p>“I’ve been writing a lot to get my minds off these things.” John stood up from his seat and made his way to the piano as well.</p><p>“May I see?”</p><p>“Sure.” He ushered her to stand from the piano bench and he flipped it open, revealing several sheet music that had tabs for both piano and guitar. Some of them were written when the guilt ate him away and the others were whenever he thought of him. They were mostly bits and pieces like segments missing a beginning and an end. All of them were just thoughts and words John wrote on the nearest piece of paper.</p><p>Strangely enough, every lyric feels more like a phrase without Paul’s melody.</p><p>“John…” Linda’s hands shuffled every sheet, every piece of paper and skimmed through the lyrics. Almost all of them were about love, sadness, isolation, heartbreak, memories, regrets, and most of all, Paul. “This isn’t really getting your mind off him.”</p><p>“It’s hard.” John turned his head away from sheet music.</p><p>A particular piece caught her eye. It stood out from the others, having been the only one that was complete. She read the lyrics and gasped. “You wrote this song for him, didn’t you?”</p><p>“Which song? I’ve written lots about him.”</p><p>“Now And Then.” She stared at him. “It sounds like a confession.”</p><p>John scoffed, turning away from her. “So what if it is?”</p><p>“Nothing,” Linda replies. “I’m just sorry you didn’t get to tell him.”</p><p>John felt his chest constrict as he sucked in a sharp breath and bit his lip. Don’t cry, Lennon. Don’t shed because they don’t make things better. Crying only makes you feel less like shit but it didn’t fix things. He learned that the hard way. He closed his eyes and calmed himself down as Linda only watched him in concern.</p><p>“Do you want to hear it?” He asked, voice so small and afraid.</p><p>Linda nodded silently and stood aside as John took his seat in front of the piano. His bony fingers shook as they hovered over ebony and ivory keys, eyes focusing on the sheet music he propped up on the music rack. He gulped, knowing that he never performed in front of anyone in ages and that this song was extremely intimate. He often saw it as a personal letter to Paul, but it was about time that he’d be honest with himself and honest to the people who knew him. He began pressing the keys and the hollow flat filled with sound, a slow and sombre tune that felt powerful enough to let the world stand perfectly still and listen to his lament.</p><p>
  <em>I know it's true, it's all because of you</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And if I make it through, it's all because of you</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And now and then, if we must start again</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Well, we will know for sure…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That I love you.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>every month is suicide prevention month<br/>if you ever feel like life's pointless, please view this list and contact your country's number<br/>https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_suicide_crisis_lines</p><p>thanks @inkinmyfingertips for beta</p><p>comments and kudos appreciated</p></blockquote></div></div>
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